---------The Boydleian-----------

2012-01-11T21:20:00.002-07:00

Soon? Maybe.

I can say one thing: I will never, ever transform The Boydleian into a personal style blog.

*barf*

Drink 'n Draw

2011-04-26T21:51:00.004-06:00

Well, I still have a thriving readership in Russia.

Sometimes (as in right now) I think about transforming The Boydleian into a personal style blog. I would occasionally post pictures of myself and also fashionable people I meet in the subway and the library, because those are the places where The Sartorialist never steps foot.

Sometimes I wish I had a decent camera so I could take meaningful (or not) pictures. New York is certainly photographically inspiring.

I started going to this thing at Brooklyn's 3rd Wardhttp://www.3rdward.com/ called Drink 'n Draw, but because of the demands of life, I've only made it twice. It's exactly what it sounds like - you pay 10 bucks for beer and a model, and you sit in a big circle while a naked person poses in sometimes rather astounding positions, and you are inspired. They play good music, and it's in a big converted warehouse. It's amazing.

Because I am feeling brave tonight, I will post a drawing with which I am particularly pleased.

Party Eight: A new crew?

2011-03-06T08:29:00.001-07:00

One of those strangers, Jennifer, had a full head of thick red hair, and as I spoke with her, we became deeply entwined in conversation, our sentences looping around each other and snaking in and out, pulsing upwards and dipping downwards, surging forward like a musical score. I wasn't sure I had seen her before, although her deep blue eyes seemed vaguely familiar. Her blindingly white skin prevented me from generating meaningful recognition.

"We've been talking." She said to me abruptly, her long bangs falling into place over her eyes so that I adjusted my gaze to watch her lips as she spoke. "We've been talking about you."

"Oh yeah?" I asked, unsurprised. "I've been at this party for hours and I thought I heard my name a few times."

She set down her wine glass and brushed her hair out of her eyes. "We've decided to let you in on a secret."

Jennifer's voice had become low and serious, and despite the gravity of this moment, I found my gaze scanning the book shelves behind her shoulder. Roberto Bolano's The Savage Detectives. I never did finish that book. I never did really like it either - delinquents traipsing around, sleeping around, skipping school, and it's all about poetry but there isn't one goddamn line of poetry in the whole thing. I fingered my right earring. One reviewer from 2008 said that reading this book was like

when you find a guy who's cute but wearing sandals and a really ugly Hardrock Cafe tee shirt and has long, scruffly hair and listens to Latin Jazz and is really into capoeira and rock climbing -- like really into capoeira and rock climbing -- and you go over to his house and realize he owns no books, except like three Kurt Vonnegut paperbacks and maybe The Outlaw Poetry Anthology and a hardcover of Guns, Germs, and Steel that his aunt gave him for Christmas six years ago and which of course he never opened because he hasn't read a book since high school.... but then you go out into his backyard and both climb up into the tree there, and he makes you laugh a lot for some reason, and then you stay up until 6 am drinking ginger ale, and then awhile after the sun comes up you both go to bed, and he doesn't even have blankets he has a sleeping bag even though he's actually almost thirty years old, but suddenly you don't care about that anymore, and pretty soon you're walking around in his baggy Hardrock Cafe tee shirt and sandals because you lost one of your shoes and your own clothes are too dirty to wear anymore since you haven't been home in a week and you're so stoned out of your mind just from being around him that you start to think that tee shirt is actually kind of cool, and anyway, it smells like him, and him is the best smell that you've ever smelt, the best idea you've ever even thought of, if that makes sense, which of course it doesn't, because at this point you're gone....

At this point I had the book in my hands, flipping through to page 300 or so where I had left off.

word verification: clogra

2011-03-01T22:07:00.001-07:00

C is for "Can't academia be nice to me all the time?"

L is for "Looking for a new vocation in life is not feasible right now."

O is for "Oh, that I could read Professor R.'s mind."

G is for "Good lord, I am sensitive."

R is for "Righty-o, I'll just keep being myself and using words like "depreciative," "conscionable," and "detainment," which, and I quote, "are all [my] coinages," apparently.

A is for "Am I the only one who reacts this strongly to criticism?," OR, "Am I even smart?," OR, "Am I able to work with Professor R. on a semi-permanent basis?"

"rather too often you reach for an elevated word and are forced to invent one"

"lofty but a little unclear"

"a bit overwritten?"

I'm going to structure all future papers for Professor R. as acrostic poetry.

a practical matter

2011-02-23T00:34:00.000-07:00

This new "Stats" function in blogger is quite revealing. Poking around the blogosphere during a very rare, and extremely frustrating night of insomnia, I just discovered that this blog has received over 600 or so page views, 108 of which are based in Russia (that's 65ish less than in the United States, and 12 more than in Canada). This means that The Boydleian still has some sort of vitality and, perhaps, relevance? (or...maybe they were just stopping by for a blogosecond, you know.) People really seem to like this post: http://theboydleian.blogspot.com/2009/06/blog-post.html. This is interesting to me.

I would like to move forward with this blog, but my problem right now is a practical one. Perhaps I could ask my 600 assiduous followers for help? For whatever reason, this blog is registered under a gmail account which I simply never use, the one associated with the email address davidandboyda@gmail.com (created solely to manage wedding-related email traffic, which is clearly in the distant past). As far as I can tell, I cannot transfer The Boydleian to my current, much-frequented gmail account. I can add my current email to my account, but I cannot transfer. Has anyone performed a transposition ritual on his/her blog? Will the transfer require less onerous labour than I imagine?

Party Seven

2010-10-29T22:49:00.004-06:00

The girl walked into the room again, returning to [the] party, eyes squinting at the brightness of the lights. She had been gone for awhile --smoked a cigarette, read some books, flipped through a magazine, got caught up in a few things and forgot about the time -- but now she was back, her purple party dress on and gold dangly earrings dangling in dangling places, and hair twisted up and around. No one would notice the faint splotch of mustard on her dress, but her earrings may have been too dangly for this crowd, or not dangly enough, it was a pretty non-dangly dangly crowd, and she felt the sudden urge to run to the bathroom (it was locked) to make sure her hair wasn't too up and around on itself, parties are not for perfectly styled hair. Suddenly a reflection of herself appeared in her mind, and she gasped inwardly at how garish her eyeshadow was, gooping out around the corners and dripping down her nose. But no one seemed to notice this at the party.

God, those lights really were bright to the point of ---------. They seemed to bear in upon her, and although she had stepped inside the entrance, she wasn't sure if the light was coming from the kitchen or the backyard. The lights were so bright that she could hardly make out faces anymore, faces she thought she recognized but couldn't when she looked directly at them. Was this even the same party? Were these the same people? Are these the same people at a different party, or a different party with the same people? A different party with different people? Same party with different people with similar interests?

She was leaning against the wall, wearing her sunglasses and purple party dress, sipping her whiskey ginger. She was there, back at the party, and it seemed like people were happy to see her. Steve smiled at her from across the room and waived distractedly --he was with another girl, good for him, she was really truly totally happy about this -- and even Marvell gave her a little bow, though people were crowded around him and she didn't understand how she was even able to see him because there were so many people.

There was a small group of strangers who seemed to take a particular interest in her.

Partial Toll Road Nightmare

2010-10-21T22:17:00.018-06:00

Although I love many things about the Big Apple, my most memorable experience of NY so far was less than pleasant. When we first arrived here, David, his parents, and I stayed at a hotel in New Jersey and traveled in to New York City to tour around during the daytime. Daniel was scheduled to fly in from Ecuador a couple days later, and so we had to pick him up from JFK airport. The day of his arrival, there was a moment during our exploration of Manhattan when we had the following conversation:

"We could just take the train to JFK straight from downtown, instead of taking the bus back to New Jersey and driving from there."

One of us (I won't say who) said "Yeah, but I'm sort of feeling like we should drive." I guess the reasoning was that it would be inconvenient for Daniel to drag all his luggage on the train - which would actually have been two trains, a bus, and a 12 minute walk to get back to the hotel. Quite the commute. So we hopped on the bus and returned to New Jersey. It had been a long day of exploring a very hot city, and I was positively parched; upon arrival at our hotel, I downed no less than five glasses of water.

Marilyn's Google Maps printout said the trip to JFK would take "47 minutes," ranging up to an hour and forty minutes with traffic (see fig.1). When we started out, things were going smoothly - we made it to about number 10 on figure 1, and it seemed to us that we would have time to swing by Fordham University to check out the campus, while still arriving at JFK inordinately early. When we arrived at number 11 or so on the map, the 9N to Washington Bridge, we had the option of choosing between "Upper Level N - Express" and "Lower Level N - Local." Of course, we picked the Express - this is what Google told us to do, and it was logically the faster route. About two minutes after choosing "Express" - somewhere along number 12 - we hit a. WALL. Of vehicles.

Deadlocked for miles.

We gazed helplessly out of our right window at the happily mobilized cars on the previously eschewed "Local" highway, now inaccessible. We found a traffic report on the radio which informed us that the New Jersey Express turnpike over Washington Bridge was backed up 10 miles. May as well have been a hundred.

TRUCKjeepcarSUVcarcarcar, and absolutely no exits or pit-stops, ANYWHERE. And it was raining, hard (it can be incredibly hot AND raining here - like reverse steam). Imprisoned in a tightly closed space with no food or amenities or immediate chance of deliverance, I began to feel faint from nausea and claustrophobia. But I kept thinking to myself "at least I don't have to go to the bathroom - wouldn't THAT be awful." I kept thinking this, repeatedly, without understanding why I was so fixated on that thought, until finally I became cognizant of the slight perturbation of my bladder. Five glasses of water is a lot for your body to absorb.

An hour later, this slight perturbation had escalated into an absolute upheaval of order and all things pure. I had been transformed into the prototype of humiliation, a bouncing, writhing, and finally crying, lunatic. I counted backwards from 100 by threes at pretty much the top of my lungs. I searched frantically for exits. I eyed the empty seat in the back of the van, which to me began to morph itself into a toilet. I asked if there were any plastic bags in the vicinity (there were not). David and his family agonized for me, but there was nothing anyone could do.

Half an hour after that, or maybe forty-five minutes, I had folded up into a womblike ball and was weeping quietly, positive that any moment I would consummate the humiliation with a river of urine. And then, someone spotted it, up ahead - an exit, the first we had seen in miles of gridlocked agony. Heedless of the fact that we were now to be an hour late in picking up Daniel, Ernie (yes, sigh, my father-in-law) swerved off the road and took the overpass to a small Subway and convenience store, the only beacon of accessible commercial civilization in miles. I darted out of the van before it had come to a stop and dashed inside, David following close behind. I burst in the doors, scanned the room, and made the terrifying discovery that there was no customer washroom.

Bugeyed, I turned to the unsuspecting Subway worker.
"Excuse me, I need to use your washroom."

"I'm sorry, washrooms are not for customers."

*blink* "Nononono you don't understand this is an EMERGENCY I will pay you I will do anything"

[David:] "Please man, this is serious."

*Subway guy shakes head* "I'm sorry, I can't."

An image of me catapulting my body across the counter and grabbing Subway-guy by the collar flashes across my brain. I will strangle him, I will do anything and everything in my strength. Instead, I start to cry, begging him in inarticulate whimpers to let me use the washroom. Seeing my tears (which were probably yellow), and glancing from me to David, he finally cracks, shrugs, and leads me into a tiny water closet with a mop and bucket and other cleaning implements. My tears are now joyous, echoing the happy tinkle emitting from the other side of my body. I am free.

While I am in the bathroom (for a looong time, I must say) David and Subway-guy stand together in silence (cue peppy elevator music). The clerk behind the counter in the convenience-store side of the room says, in a foreign language, something disapproving to Subway-guy, and I'm sure it was along the lines of "You're going to get in trouble for this." Subway-guy responds with "But she was crying!"

************************
When we finally arrived at the airport, it was revealed that Daniel's plane was also delayed and he had only just arrived as well. But when we got back on the road for the return trip - already three and a half hours after we had left our New Jersey hotel - the rain had intensified, and there was only about two meters of visibility in front of the van. We also had not thought to print out return-trip directions, so we didn't really know where we were going. Things were tense, but I didn't care. I was prepared, and liquidless.

Driving from New Jersey to JFK on a Sunday night? Visit the bathroom, people. And don't gorge yourself on water. Or, just scrap the plan altogether - like seriously, take the train.

************************

Also, noodle caps.

Coming soon?

2010-10-20T16:52:00.004-06:00

As I am again bereft of a stable sense of 'home,' it is possible that this blog will be rejuvenated.

What do you think?

Check back tomorrow night for the re-inaugural Boydleian-still-lives blog, which I wager will involve adventure and intrigue, hope and defeat, Google maps and noodle caps. (ok, probably not the last thing).

In case you hadn't guessed it...

2010-02-07T23:16:00.004-07:00

Sorry guys - this blog is officially on-hold for awhile. It was inevitable.

I just don't feel the need to keep this thing going at this time in my life. I'm sure I'll need it again at some point - so perhaps this is very selfish of me, I don't know. I've been away from the blogosphere lately, and while I know I need to improve upon this, I don't feel like my personal blog is a priority.

So farewell, for now. I'll be back! And thanks for being my faithful readers thusfar. I've really, truly appreciated it. Thank you all.

*waves continually while fading off into a dimming sunset*

Oh, and I'll leave you with this:

2010-01-12T00:52:00.002-07:00

Also, like, read this for a dose of crazy-genius.

Family history one

2010-01-07T09:04:00.003-07:00

Recently, I've been spending a lot of time with family - some whom I haven't seen for over two years (since our wedding), even though we've lived in the same city - and I've learned some very remarkable things about my family history.

Some highlights:

1. Great-aunt Boyda Hugh, my namesake, liked to disguise her "middle-class Welsh scum" accent with an upper-crust English one, to attract the men. Partially due to this, she lived the last twenty-or-so years of her life as a veritable courtesan to a rich Calgarian by the name of Jeff (?) Sullivan. She lived in a "kept house" in Banff, and he would visit her on weekends. Apparently, before every visit, Boyda would kiss a picture of her deceased husband and ask for forgiveness.

2. My great-grandmother (name unknown at present) was a "Chicago-Black-Cherokee-Irish" woman. Because my great-grandfather's family disapproved, my grandfather left his family settlement in Ontario, to which his family had fled from Scotland (where he and his Johnstone clan had been horse-rustlers, rogues, the whole deal, at least according to my motor-cycling, tattooed half brother). There is a long tradition of men in my family marrying socially-undesirable women.

3. Great-aunt Boyda bet on horse-racing, and was extremely good. But she wouldn't tell anyone her secrets, no matter how ardently family members would suck up to her.

When I was young, I could care less about my family ancestory. Now, I find these stories fascinating - especially Boyda's, about whom I knew absolutely nothing before yesterday. I would like to learn more (and I wish I had an old, stained, black-and-white photo to include with this blog, but alas, my journey has only just begun).

What are three interesting things about your family?

the maze underneath British Library

2009-12-22T22:06:00.013-07:00

It was a weird moment for me

when I realized

that most of the British Library's 14 million books, 900000 newspaper and journal titles, 58 million patents, and 3 million sound recordings

(those which take less than 70 minutes to call up, that is)

are hidden underneath the great cement yard

a pedestrian parking lot

which leads up to the library's front doors

on which scholars share their lunches
and shoot the shit
and joke in Latin

over two-pound instant coffee

And the librarians, they penetrate this maze, deep below the

Party Six: Getting my bearings

2009-12-08T00:19:00.008-07:00

I gripped the screen door handle and opened the door when the door opened to me and I stepped in the door and tripped over a mountainous terrain of shoes, leathers and browns and greens and a few stranded purses. They were spread forward like a platter, I remember thinking that, they were spread forward like a platter. Wobbling, I managed to maintain enough balance and dignity not to reach forward and grab Cara's arms in order to prevent my fall, which would have knocked the wine glass out of her hand and splashed little droplets of malbec everywhere, all over the shoes and probably onto Cara's fun cream party dress. I didn't do that.

I stepped and tripped and looked up and Cara was grinning at me and I smiled and we exchanged words and she dragged me into a mass of bodies. I tried to soak in everyone's faces without acknowledging my sneaking suspicion that everyone was staring at me - they weren't, were they, the music was blaring and they were talking and a couple people looking up isn't everyone looking up - and then my eyes fell into a sudden freeze-pose with big intense eyes, oh, that guy I met the other day, he's here, he's smiling at me and suddenly gesturing as though he wants to break off from whomever he's talking with - is that Tina?? - but Cara has gone off ahead and she expects me to follow her to the kitchen, she had said, I should follow her to the kitchen. I noticed that the walls, or perhaps a massive monochromatic wall painting, were yellow, and something else was black and brown, and then I realized that I hadn't taken off my shoes in all the entrance-tripping excitement and I was now treading over her hardwood floor - no, tracking over her hardwood floor, tracking snow.

"Hi again! Good to see you here!"

I looked up and sure enough, it was Steve, tall handsome Steve, who probably thinks I'm available, but it's just so nice that he wants to talk to me, and I've lost Cara now but I glance around the room again and realize that no, it is not Tina, and I do not know anyone else except maybe vaguely.

Steve asked me about my project, which lead to my summer, which lead me to ask him about his project and his summer, and we had a good conversation about our projects and our summers, and seven minutes had passed, and I was still at the party, and I was having a good time.

(http://kowalsky.co.uk/index.html)

breaking up with the blog?

2009-12-04T15:06:00.003-07:00

Jeez, I suck at my blog these days. I don't think it has collapsed, but I think maybe I have. Collapsed under an interminable pile of applications and papers. PhD apps are making me stupid, absent-minded, and erratic - I can't tell you how many times I've been like "Ok, so what items do I need to include in this application?" I usually have a really good memory for these details.

I have been meaning forever to respond to Tom and Matt's comments in the last debate - to explain to Tom the working-class etc. themes, and to agree with Matt that Eliot is searching for something beyond language, yes, absolutely. And Tom, yes, you're right in pointing out that the debate should not become one between the 'crass and the composed.' I really appreciate both of your critical engagement with my ideas, and I'm moved that you were both motivated to re-read The Wasteland. Thank you.

I also don't think that the Party series has collapsed - has it? I am tempted to create a separate blog to maintain a sense of cohesion with these posts, but that would be a pretty major step.

Anyway, I continue to think about the meaning of this blog. I'll leave you with this video. I don't think it represents my own break-up with The Boydleian. But I don't think a lot of things.

Discussion of: "Rev. of 'Rev. of: classical music heaven'"

2009-11-18T23:59:00.007-07:00

I have to address this; otherwise I would be a bad blogger. Also I want to. I'm just not entirely sure I'm up to the challenge.

Let me fill you in. Tom has interpreted my post below, reviewing two performers at the Honens competition in Calgary, as "a discourse not so much on the empirical content of a factual event, but, taking flight from the ground of said event, as a metaphysical depiction of this ineliminable modern and ancient dichotomy of reason [represented by the first performer, Natacha, a true musical eccentric with winged fingers] & passion [represented by the second performer, Yue, a virtuosic but soulless robot]." That is, Tom distills my argument to a philosophical debate between reason and emotion. Tom quite rightly suggests that the reviewer (myself), evidently privileging the first standard of music and life, acts in accordance with the general public, who would only be convinced otherwise if the second performer was later proven to exhibit a performance of passion comparable with the first. Tom then decries the ineliminable nature of this conflict as both passion and rationality are essential to the human experience, and expresses a final, exasperated desire to rid himself of the conflict altogether, and perhaps find solace in the world of the material, which is immune to any discussion of ration versus passion.

So, guyz, passion versus rationality? Feeling vs. thinking? IS there an essential, perpetual conflict? Do you generally prefer the former, as has been suggested? I would love to hear some more views on the topic, in the form of any kind of expression or response (ie. no need for verbosity).

Myself...yes, I suppose we know where my loyalty lies, at least as an observor. However, I am also a devoted critical writer, so I admire a thoughtful and logically presented argument, backed with substantial evidence and carefully crafted rhetoric.

T.S. Eliot hated the 'me-'ness that he saw in many more emotionally charged contemporary poets. He wanted to distance himself as much as possible from his work, employing many allusions and alternate narrative voices in order to state something broader, about life I guess. But it is arguable whether logic or emotion presents itself as more accessible to readers/viewers unfamiliar with the experience or subject matter (?). Eliot wanted to avoid all transparency in his poetry (transparency in the sense that his work would say something about him, personally), but the result can be obscure density - particularly in The Wasteland, which is a brilliant work but which requires quite a few pages of footnotes. Still, I'm starting to wonder, as I often do, if the dichotomy is flawed here, as Eliot's work certainly reflects rational, distanced meditation, but it also communicates profound emotion and humanistic portrayals, particularly in the depiction of working classes and the malaise of modern society. So is this the perfect balance of thought and feeling, as it requires much preparation but still a humanistic deployment?

Eek. I may be making myself more confused.

Please, thoughts (or feelings?).

My Radio Debut

2009-11-12T12:57:00.004-07:00

Hello all,

I don't know if any of you will read this in time, but I will be on CJSW (the campus radio station) tonight at 6 pm MST, being interviewed about my thesis. I'm pretty nervous, and I'm not positive I won't run out of things to say 10 minutes in, but oh well.

You can listen to CJSW online here if you are interested.

2009-11-08T20:30:00.002-07:00

READ THIS.

(in particular, the second-last comment. TRUST me.)

Party Five: bathroom break

2009-11-04T23:41:00.002-07:00

Brenda turned the doorknob.

It was locked.

Brenda really, really had to go to the bathroom.

Rev. of: classical music heaven

2009-11-01T20:44:00.012-07:00

I have long been a lover/patron/practicer of classical music, perhaps since I first heard my mom playing Chopin's Waltz Op. 64 No. 2 when I was very young. As such, I am very thankful for one of Calgary's little-known secrets, the Honens International Piano Competition. You should know that audio recordings of all the performances are available online here. The performances I will discuss today are both from the 30 October evening semifinals.

Natacha Kudritskaya entered the stage wearing gray sweat pants, Converse sneakers, and a long-sleeved black t-shirt with, as we could later tell, two fairy wings imprinted on the back. She sat down at the piano and silently worshiped it for a few piercing moments before taking off on a whirlwind musical trip of emotion and fervor. Although a few trills were lost in the beginning of the Schubert -- perhaps due to nerves or the lack of a fully sufficient sacrifice to the god of music-- the rest of the performance was riveting, demonstrating a passion for the instrument and tempered delight in its dynamic extremes. Kudritskaya elicited a standing ovation at the end, but demurred an encore.

The second performance, Yue Chu, supplied a rather different musical experience. Clearly a technical genius, Chu scarcely fumbled a single note: refer especially to the three-minute movement within the Mahler piece which occurs 48 minutes into his audio recording (you will notice that this piece is followed by a rare outburst of spontaneous applause, usually occuring only at the end of each section). His nimble fingers effortlessly danced across the keys, displaying his absolute command over the instrument. Especially notable was his skilled accompaniment of the contralto Marie-Nicole Lemieux: he followed her lead with attentiveness and respect, and the pair seemed as though they were a practiced duo.

But Natacha's raw emotion and pure dynamicism were lacking in Chu's performance, particularly in the Beethoven. Although Yue may be the one to cut the records, Natacha spins the musical magic which one hopes for in a live performance.

Party four: having a smoke

2009-10-26T22:04:00.011-06:00

Maria extinguished her cigarette on the cement porch steps. Another one would give her a good excuse to just...stay, but she had already had three smokes that day and, well, she was trying to cut down.

She glanced next to her, realized the girl whom she had chatted with was gone, wondered when she had left. Hoped she hadn't been too rude, but did she really care? That girl did seem kinda cute, but then again it's hard to see in this light.

Brenda was probably inside, champagne flute and butter tart in hand, conversing animatedly with whomever would listen. I bet she was having a great time. It sounded in all respects like a fun party inside, from out here, on the porch, in front of the shadowy green hedges, in this quiet Sunnyside residential street. Maybe I should wander over to the local convenience store and buy...no, she had smokes left, and come on now you just said you didn't want any more.

She recognized the accelerated rhythmic guitar of some song by what sounded like Of Montreal drifting out from inside. Of Montreal. She was Of Montreal, or sort of for a couple years at least, though I guess this guy is from Georgia. It reminded her of long evenings spent elbowing each other on the miniature-size couch and giggling as they balanced books and notebooks on their laps and allowing the leftovers to just sit in front of them on the coffee table, it wasn't important because they were listening to good music a song on repeat for the nth time and they were just together is all, that mattered.

She thought of that girl, the hesitant one. What am I doing here, entering my nth year of university? Haven't I had enough of Derrida and Butler and feminist uses of irony or whatever the hell my doctoral thesis was about?

She thought of that girl, the hesitant one. She wondered if she was having a good time.

2009-10-22T11:45:00.000-06:00

http://www.maldura.unipd.it/mt2010/programme.html.

See under 'J.'

Group of Seven?

2009-10-21T12:27:00.006-06:00

Jana, I've been meaning to post this for awhile.

"The Secret: The Group of Seven's infatuation with the occult mysticism of Madame Blavatsky."

Never before had I really appreciated the Group of Seven's art. Transcendentalism? Occultism?? Soooo cool.

Lauren Harris:

(http://www.groupofsevenart.com/)
What do you think of the Group of Seven? Especially, but not exclusively, after reading this article.

Party III: Snacks

2009-10-14T22:09:00.009-06:00

Chris lingered in the corner by the snacks table, enjoying a rare moment of respite from awkward greetings and artificial laughter. He knew he only had a few seconds before his antisocial stance was noticed and he would have to choose between reengagement and blatant rudeness.

These parties make him remember his school days. They weren't so far back, those times of 4 ams and loud music and obnoxious sexist jokes and stumbling in late to class and erratic schedules. Life was exciting and every moment felt important, somehow. His roommates were cool then, potheads sure but who wasn't, I mean who didn't wish he was, they were just so cool well that was only for a year anyway and then he moved in with Brian who was from Singapore and who worked more than it was healthy to engage your brain but he loved it, didn't he, sure and he would look up from his Managerial Economics textbook and ask Chris why he was in English and Chris had a hard time answering for awhile.

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for...something. Had to memorize that once. It was alright, but it was still embarrassing to stand up there in front of the whole class and freeze

-halting forth-

Marvell's sonorant voice disrupted his thoughts. "..automatic, which is plus intentional and minus expressive..." He was engaged in a loud, raucous conversation with a short blond girl whom Chris didn't recognize, slurring his words and generally making an ass out of himself. The girl caught Chris's eyes and Chris looked away. Just one more moment.

Chris liked Marvell's class. That was one class that he really, really liked, and maybe he had some weirdo ideas and maybe most of the time he was wrong, but one thing was for damn sure Chris had never heard someone speak with so much conviction about, well, any topic really, zombie movies and kiss montages, and what else had ever motivated Chris to write something --oh yes, write, that short story comprised entirely of phrases from Sesame Street - so maybe it was stupid but it was something. I wonder if I should-

His thoughts were again interrupted. "Hey, I'm Paul."

"electrons are free"

2009-10-06T22:08:00.004-06:00

Well, I'm quite encouraged by the response to the Party series. In one sense, it is a shameless rip-off of this excellent blog, but I hope to retain creative originality to the extent that I can avoid intellectual thievery. We'll see.

Of course, it's way too early to proclaim this project a success.

David and I have been listening a lot to this band:
.

These videos make for great bedtime stories.

Party II: getting a drink

2009-10-01T22:03:00.004-06:00

Marvell slid his finger over the edge of the wine glass and looked at her with slightly blurry eyes, able to perceive that she was pretty but also young, too young, and vaguely familiar perhaps.

"Have you read my latest work, 'Meteorosis'?" he queried, dropping it somewhat abruptly into the formalities of hello.

"Um, no, but I've heard it's very good."

"Well, some would say it's my best work. I spent about two years just devising the concept for the concept of it, you see, but once I had that it just fell together like clockwork - like a carrrefully-crafted grandfather clock."

"Hmm, yeah, maybe I will read it then. I appreciate a solid concept."

If he had been more aware he would have noticed that her eyes drifted over his shoulder, only perfunctorily invested in this conversation.

"Weell, mine is the solidest of solids. The everest of everests. I mean really, anyone could do this kind of thing with words - manipulate them into such shtrict regimentation - but very few people would have the kind of patience it requires." He laughed, spilling a few burgundy drops onto his white collar. "I'll never do it again."

She chuckled nervously, locking eyes with the tall figure behind Marvell, pleading for escape. Marvell leaned past her and snatched up the red wine bottle, stumbling a bit and pouring some into her glass without comment.

"Shee, I believe there are only four types of poetry in the entire world, and all the world's poetries fit into those types. Cognitive, which would be plus intentional and plus expressive; mannerist, plus intentional and minus expressive; auto-er, automatic, which is negative intention and plus expression; and...aleatoric, which is negative intention and minus expression. Two negatives you see. Like dogs playing poker for words." He was growing dizzy and not so sure that this lecture was as apogeic as he had hoped. Needs a firm conclusion. "Like this, right now, what I'm speaking, is rather automatic. While Meteorosis, you see, Meteorosis is...mannerist, I guess. Almost too intentional. Wouldn't you say?"

She was now drinking a bergundy-tainted vodka and orange juice.

2009-09-29T15:49:00.005-06:00

Yesterday my prof showed this clip from Monty Python's Life of Brian to our Latin 201 class. I'm sure most of you are familiar.

NO ONE LAUGHED.

The girl next to me didn't so much as crack a smile.

***Why must kids think they're too cool for school??***

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
On a note related to my last post: I think I've figured out a new, though not entirely new, direction for my blog. I'm quite excited. I'm glad the last post was received well.

Party I: A New Beginning

2009-09-28T20:59:00.006-06:00

I went to a party last night. Nervous, unsure, I lingered for a good thirty seconds behind the hedges in the yard, staring through into the lit living room with standing shadows and bottle-shaped hands. I thought that no one could see me, that I could still escape and go home to bounce into my pjs and onto the couch, but after I took a deep breath and minced a few steps forward, I noticed that a black shape sat on the front steps, smoking. I halted. Had I been seen? Do I know - her? I guess this is too late, I quickly realized, and I walked forward as though that had been my plan the whole time.

I smiled at the girl, said hello. She tipped her glass to me distractedly and smiled back, and I sat down beside her, just like that, as though that had been my plan the whole time. I did it clumsily, slipping a little and brushing against her, and she shoved over. She may have been annoyed, I don't know.

"Is this the-...."

"Cara's party, yes. There are a lot of people in there. I needed to get out."

"Yup. I know the feeling. I feel that way already, in fact, and I haven't even stepped in the door."

"Well, there're some friendly people, I just don't know any of 'em."

Music and rowdy laughter soundtracked our conversation and I didn't want to go inside, not at all. But I had been seen.

"Are you in the department?", I asked. She didn't answer and I knew she hadn't heard, so I repeated myself.

"Yeah. Well, sorta. I'm a post-doc student. If this year counts, this will be my 12th year of university."

"Wow."

"I worked and worked at my dissertation, and after I finished it I taught as a sessional for awhile and realized I hate teaching. So I got into U of C, and now I'm trying to brew up some long-term research that isn't related to my PhD."

"Hmm. Is that hard to do? I mean, after so many years and all that research, after you pour yourself into one topic like that."

Silence. She didn't seem to hear me. Just sat there, inhaling the last few remnants of her cigarette, staring off over the hedges. I suddenly realized it was my cue to leave, and at that point I really really wanted to get inside. I got up and rang the doorbell.

"Just go in. They won't hear you."

But she just stayed there, stuck on the porch, petrified, unable to move.

sententious oneiric perambulations

2009-09-23T16:10:00.005-06:00

Wow, I now have seven followers. That's like almost a cult. And I haven't posted in long enough that I had to "moderate" the last comment because I have a filter set for comments older than 14 days. Maybe I've just been pretending that "off-facebook" means off-everything - but I reactivated my facebook account yesterday, and have already received one invite to a party which I probably wouldn't have received otherwise (please don't jump to any conclusions regarding what that says about my friends). Also, Tom, if you're out there, I became very aware that facebook is your only medium of communication with me if you wanna come visit. Come visit!

So, not much has changed in the last two weeks. [sorry to those of you who may have read a variation of the following passage elsewhere] I've been working assiduously and sedulously towards some quixotic goal of becoming a PhD student on the Eastern coast of the United States. I'm generally quite perspicacious about these things (read: pessimistic), and my keen sense of judgment tells me I might be downright crazy. The stats for getting into these schools are stupendous, which makes me stupid for thinking I have a chance.

That's negative language.

Truth is, I aver/asseverate that I might have a chance. I acted like a total prosaic neophyte on my first two GRE practice tests, marks that probably wouldn't get me into PhD in Calgary (ha). But my third go at it, last Saturday, went much better, and although I got about a 34 percentile rating on the math section (me! daughter of a math teacher! 98% in Math 31! Actually, 34th percentile is about 70%, so it's not quite as terrible as it sounds), I got within the 97th percentile in Verbal - which is the section that REALLY matters. This may just have been a fluke (what's a better word for 'fluke'?), but perhaps my study-tactics have made me into more of an erudite with the dinosaur that is American standardized testing.

I could vehemently vituperate/excoriate the whole ETS-GRE institution right now and their captious, cavil, archaic methods of learning, but I don't want to seem too contumacious or spread any seditious perfidy which might lead to a bellicosity or truculency for academic war, and will thus relieve you from that harangue/diatribe. So, I will continue to exercise alacrity and consider myself a pulchritudinous site of fecundity for information.

In other news, I'm just not sure where to go from here with The Boydleian. I don't want to just treat it like a journal and recount daily events in the life of Boyda. David suggested that I could bat around some thesis-related ideas and treat it as a bit of a forum for my own research - that is, after all, what I do with my time. But would that be interesting? Any thoughts? I started this blog because I needed a verbal/creative outlet in England, and I had lots to say when I was there. I coulda written more! Or I could pretend I was still there and tell stories, but that's boring. So I'm really not sure what to do, and I would very much appreciate feedback from my dearly beloved readers.

(Wazzy D, maybe you're right, and I need to just sit myself down and force myself to be creative, no matter where I am. I've thought about what you said.)

1st day of class

2009-09-10T00:05:00.003-06:00

I'd like to share with you the main events of my first day of school to commence the second year of my graduate program in the English Department at the University of Calgary.

[condensed]

I was introduced to a research project of which I'm a contributing member, for two point five hours. A Behavioral Sciences experiment then tested the limits of my intelligence by asking me to chose between the colors red and white. I made my decision (white. I'm wearing a red shirt today.), and then proceeded to spend two and a half hours deleting superfluous white lines from a word document. After which, I went to class and learned the definitions of subject, object, verb. For another two hours.

It was kind of like kindergarden.

Which, really, isn't all that bad. I missed out on kindergarden.

Red or white. Which would you chose?

donkeys, seven.

2009-09-02T23:54:00.005-06:00

As I said earlier, if you can get five years in prison for this, you must live in a pretty corrupt country.

"Donkey play violin!!"

I said this on facebook and I'll say it here: I'm so pleased that Azerbaijan is finally receiving BBC exposure. Maybe the world will wake up to the trials of this seemingly-tranquil state and Azerbaijan will be peacefully coaxed into reform (uh, how?). And then more tourists will discover this incredibly rich and unique culture - not that Azerbaijan's economy is really suffering right now. But you know, once its oil runs out, it will need another industry.

More importantly than this, and indeed more importantly than everything I've ever said before...
I realized that David and I are entering our seventh year of post-graduate study.

Seventh!

I remember when I was in Grade 11 and wanted to go into psychology, but realized that it would require at least 6 years of uni. That clinched my decision to ...not do psychology (so glad I didn't). But I'm now entering my seventh and facing 4+ additional years after this. I'll be 30 if/when I finally get out and, you know, start thinking about settling down or whatever.

I used to be really young for my age, if you know what I mean, and now I'm increasingly catching up/falling behind. It's just weird. Not a bad thing. Just weird.

COF

2009-08-28T01:06:00.003-06:00

I am going away this weekend. A long-standing annual tradition awaits.

I will be back afresh on Monday with stories to tell, since I know I'm overdue. Been spending too much time on http://sinnersbleeders.blogspot.com/.

P.S. I just heard that a guy died in B.C. because his laptop overheated and exploded and started a fire in his apartment, and now I'm super paranoid about mine. It gets hot.

Princeton's advice

2009-08-23T15:01:00.002-06:00

Here are some helpful hints from the 'Cracking the GRE' people of the Princeton Review. So helpful that, through my tears of laughter, I had to post it as soon as possible:

(Please excuse the quality of a video taken with digital camera)

Peak Oil.

2009-08-21T11:54:00.004-06:00

Are you worried?

(please excuse the Al Gore ref.)

Religion and pasthood.

2009-08-19T23:39:00.006-06:00

I am up early because David lovingly and cold-heartedly shoved me out of bed. I'm supposed to do Osborne work, so I'm getting back at him by writing a blog.

Yesterday evening David and I drove out here to to pick up a friend and have ice cream here. The signs as we drove in to the former instructed us to Respect the Silence, and we surely did as the vehicle cruised down the slight slope into a white-washed, regal-looking group of buildings ornamented with statues of an open-armed Francis, and overlooking a deep ravine with trees the height of Cincinnati.

As often happens with old school friends, we talked about religion last night. We talked about if and how it is possible to reconcile our present non-evangelical, liberal-minded blah blah blah selves with our past exactly-the-opposite selves. Well, not exactly the opposite. But really, would I be better off if I wasn't raised the way I was?

Apparently this is a picture of a catholic church.

On another note, I will be spending the semester writing my thesis, completing Osborne hours, and studying Latin during the day, and studying for the GRE General AND GRE Subject exams in the evenings. I will have to answer questions like:

7. Not wishing to appear ......, the junior member of the research group refrained from ..... any criticism of the senior members' plan for dividing up responsibility for the entire project.
(A) reluctant....evaluating
(B) inquisitive....offering
(C) presumptuous....venturing
(D) censorious....undercutting
(E) moralistic....observing

--

2009-08-17T11:28:00.004-06:00

Hmm, have to say that I'm finding life in Calgary...enjoyable, but uninspiring. What's the trade-off here? Semi-depressed, ultra-introverted, and creative in Leeds, or content, extroverted (with David at least), and non-creative in Calgary?

Just need to get that perpetual self-narration going again, and I should be fine...

Also, I think Nabokov is my favorite author.

Document3

2009-08-14T15:36:00.003-06:00

(This from a month ago. I'm basically posting it to get the ball rolling again.)

The girl stared at the blank screen.

Sometimes the blank screen told her things, like what to do and where to go, and how to get there. Sometimes it told her who she was, and the knowledge of that was like a sharp knife slicing through her frantic fingers.

The stared girl at the screen blank thought.

The girl thought about slicing through the frantic screen, about what it would mean for the screen to be punished, and her fingers began to pulse with pleasure. The dark figures on the screen raced across the screen in corresponding fashion, but soon her thoughts were redirected towards previous thoughts and previous finger figures and other forms of non-blankness and she no longer understood which was blank and which was blank was.

The screen stared at the blank girl thought.

Her fingers pulsed and raced and franticly felt and hurried and stopped and wondered and paused and moved towards the lock again wondering if it was still there and if she could be unenclosed but of course it was always still there and the blankness tried to get inside, tried harder than she expected it to.

(is this Canada? Maybe. I don't want to revert to my Canada-self in Canada.)

first post in Canada

2009-08-03T19:41:00.002-06:00

Dear friends,
This last week has been extremely busy, but I do hope you will stick with me until I post for real again. I am back in Canada, and I do plan to keep this up.
I also apologize for falling behind in reading other worthy blogs.

I sincerely appreciate all of you.
Love,
Boyda

great mellow research music

2009-07-29T10:56:00.007-06:00

I recently discovered a compilation album with all my favorite artists.

It's really, really good.

(Matthew, how do you embed youtube videos in your posts?)

(note to self)

2009-07-28T04:55:00.001-06:00

God, I love London.

an answer for Tom

2009-07-27T15:53:00.002-06:00

My friend Tom asked me yesterday what I would write if I wrote something - you know, like a creative-something.

So I told him that I would like to write a short story, and that if I wrote something longer than a short story, I would like it to be a 'long' short-story. I like the short-story feel. Simple and coherent, like a painting.

Tom, you are awesome. As an aside. You must know that you are the greatest person in London.

And I think I know what I would write about, though I have no idea how to start. The subject may not come as a surprise, for those of you who have been following my blog (though I've realized that I haven't broached the subject in a while, despite my plans to include a particular word in every single post. Now I've violated that promise, and therefore cannot utter the word).

"The mobile statue lurched over to where the girl was sitting and pointed to the far corner of her desk. The girl's eyes obeyed, focused in on the direct object, understood, and jumped out of her chair to follow him back to the front. No words were exchanged."

Not that I'm thinking of starting. Not sure that creative writing is exactly my forte.

language-bites

2009-07-21T14:46:00.007-06:00

[Nick, in his Sunday sermon:]
"So finally, I went, I went and talked to him and obeyed what I knew God wanted me to do.
......well, er, it turned out he didn't need lunch...but."

[Mary from Lichfield:]
"Everyone thinks we've been married for years. Truth is, we've known each other for 26 yrs, but it was last November when Harry asked if he could take me out. 'No, thank you very much,' I said, 'I'm just fine here on my own.' But he finally convinced me, and we just got on so well."

[Facebook statuses, name withheld:]
"Gilmore Girls on mute; luvly jubly :P"
OR
"Town anyone? I got some shizzle to bizzle."

[Skype-chatting, name withheld:]
"It's amazing to see mountains and appreciate them...to climb to the top of a peak, feel exhausted, and look around."

[Edwin Mellen representative at the IMC:]
"You're a very stylish girl. So stylish that I'd like to publish your academic work and put your picture on the back of one of our books."

[Me, in my head, 15 minutes ago:]
'Me, right now, eating salad out of a bag and drinking wine out of an old jam jar.'

[facebook-chatting, earlier today, name withheld:]
"Boyda, this city."

Ode to Jean Crowther

2009-07-21T04:47:00.008-06:00

When I first arrived in Leeds, I bought a little parlour palm in order to keep me company. If you can imagine, solitary life in a foreign country makes it very important to have something which depends upon you for survival; if something happened to me, it is comforting to know that at least some living being in Leeds would be affected by it. So I wandered down to a locally-owned flower shop and met Jean Crowther, a wonderful, sprightly elderly lady who obviously loved her flowers and who recommended this miniature palm tree thing for my needs (low maintenance, manageable, basically). We chatted, and I left the shop with a little plant and a lighter heart.

Conversations (words) have become very important to me - someone thoughtfully commented the other day that a three-month trip is too short to make meaningful relationships, but long enough to need them. So I was really glad to have met Jean Crowther, and felt like the plant was somehow a symbol of her.

This parlour palm was my friend, not that I talked to it every day, but many days. It was cute.

I also met another memorable person, a guy who works at the local Oxfam. We hung out a couple times, and I think this is the closest to a meaningful relationship which I developed in Leeds. He...is unhappy and unemployed (besides Oxfam), and seemed to just need someone to listen. He liked that I'm artistic - I kind of see him as an artist waiting to happen.

Yesterday, when I knew I would never see Oxfam guy again, I gave him my plant, and felt that I was passing on something important.

Today, when walking to school, I noticed some posters outside of the Jean Crowther flower shop which informed me that last week, Jean Crowther died.

I think I've developed a heightened emotional sensitivity on this trip, and I've also become even more superstitious than I was before. My world is very self-contained. This news of her death has really shaken me up. I don't really know why.

I'm just really glad that I gave away my parlour palm, and that I don't have to throw it in the garbage in three days.

my secret life (maybe)

2009-07-14T16:15:00.004-06:00

Apparently I was on BBC the other day. There was footage of me standing behind Rufus with a stupid goofy grin on my face as he walked by - probably about 30 seconds after that last picture was taken. Now my fandom marks my first real TV exposure. Oh well. I got to be on BBC!! Except I didn't see it, unfortunately, and my computer doesn't seem to be able to play it.

I apologize for the lack of artistic continuity in my blog this week. I'm very busy at the the Leeds International Medieval Congress. I'm just a listener (not presenting a paper or anything), but it's still very exciting and exhausting. There are true geniuses at this conference. I've attended like, oh, 35 papers in the last two days, and not one of them has been a flop. I get to witness dialogue between distinguished scholars in all their institutionalized, sheltered, self-aware-but-somewhat-ok-with-it glory, and I can sense where medieval studies are headed in the future. I feel pretty confident about my own work, and I dream of the day when I too can be, well, an institutionalized snob. That is, I want to attend conferences like this and connect with old friends whom I only see at conferences like this. I want to be included. I want to be referenced in keynote speeches, I want to be refuted, I want to be acknowledged.

Today, I

2009-07-10T20:04:00.011-06:00

touched Rufus Wainwright.

saw a girl unload an entire garbage-bag worth of clothes onto the cash 'n wrap counter at a disgustingly-cheap department store called Primark (er, I had underdressed for my day trip and needed to buy a sweater, after which, of course, it got sunny and warm).

went to the Rufus opera (hmmm).

caught the first train possible to Manchester and the last train home (It's late).

was hit on by an Italian actually named Giovanni who works at an arts coffeehouse in Manchester, and who studies fine arts as a doctoral student (I must admit, it was flattering).

'read' a Middle French manuscript (I don't know French).

saw what is possibly the earliest known copy of the New Testament in any language (which really got me thinking).

made a friend (a 'safe' one).

saw incredible original footage of Jerry Lee Lewis performing this at Manchester Granada Hall in 1960something, the day before he was cast out of the country for being an 'incestuous pediphile' (this isn't it, but still good. I watched Dennis Quaid's JLL about a hundred times as a kid, and always wondered what he was really like).

was hit on by Creepy Guy on the street (not so flattering) who somehow managed to put his arm around me before I finally got away, and made me realize that what people say about girls, alone, at night, is sometimes true.

felt weird about my life.

I like Manchester, in all it's post-industrial-residual-Socialist-fallout glory, though the day left a bad taste in my mouth. I feel sorta gross about being a 'groupie.' And Creepy Guy.
And also, it's really, really late. I'll probably regret something in this post tomorrow.

back in the library (a short narrative)

2009-07-09T15:07:00.012-06:00

Document2

2009-07-06T11:55:00.002-06:00

The girl unlocked the door.

She then wondered if it had locked properly, so she twisted the lock again, only to find that it was unlocked.
She placed the key into the lock and turned it.

Later she unlocked the door and found that it was already unlocked. She twisted the handle and it opened after slight resistance. She bent down and peered through the keyhole and discovered that she could look through it, that the keyhole could be looked through. She twisted the knob, forced the key through the keyhole, removed the key from the keyhole and bent over to look through to the other side. It seemed that she could do this, that it was possible to look through the walls and the floor on the other side, and she could imagine that if she passed through to the other side, she could bend down and look through the keyhole again to where she once was. She paused and considered twisting the handle again. She knew the handle would turn and there she would be again, facing the open door. Twisting the handle was pointless, she realized, and so she placed the key into the keyhole and turned, hearing with satisfaction the click of the lock.

The girl got on a train and sped to the other side of the country, zoom.

She then opened the door and opened another door and pressed a button and was lowered slowly and advanced through the open door and walked up steps and walked down steps and scaned the key fob and applied slight pressure to the door so that it opened softly and inserted her key into the keyhole and turned and heard the click and lowered the handle and closed the door and heard the click and couldn't look through the keyhole because it wasn't there and inserted the key into the lock and turned the key and heard the click but when she returned to the door later she realized that it was unlocked and she closed the door and it was unlocked again but then she locked it and there is no way she could be wrong, about it, this time.

thoughts on York II

2009-07-04T16:21:00.004-06:00

Thoughts on York I

2009-07-04T15:55:00.013-06:00

I took a day trip to York. I forgot to show the ticket agent my Railcard, so I paid 3 pounds more than I should have. I went to the National Rail Museum, which sucked. I spent about 8 hours wandering around the old city, shopping, absorbing, thinking, wondering. I went to Evensong at York Minster and tried to connect with the divine through golden arches and medieval glass. I ate a disgustingly greasy Cornish pasty, and then didn't take another bite of anything for seven hours. I smoked a cigarette by the ruins of St. Mary's cathedral. I probably walked about, oh, 5 miles - or more? Is that even an impressive number? Think of an impressive number of miles to walk, and that's probably right (I really wish I knew). My legs felt like machines after a while. I did a series of sketches at the river, and when I stood up I could barely move. Then I just took a couple shaky steps and they seemed to shift into gear. Perhaps the National Rail Museum will want my legs as part of a future exhibit.
(and I was wearing these:

)

2009-06-30T02:28:00.001-06:00

Weird....I can't seem to comment on my own blog. My comments were just disappearing. Well, thanks for taking care of that for me, Matthew, Forrest, and Jana!!

I just remembered something

2009-06-27T10:31:00.009-06:00

When my family lived in our tiny house on the outskirts of Beaverlodge, I spent a lot of time at the Beaverlodge Public Library. Kids could borrow cassette tapes from the library with parental permission, and one day my mom gave me leave to borrow a Michael Jackson cassette - I don't remember which one.

I took it home, listened to a couple songs, enjoyed it, felt kind of rebellious and cool.

My dad got home that day, found the Michael Jackson tape in the stereo, took it out, and snapped it in half, later informing me that I must never listen to such things.

Understanding Leeds.

2009-06-23T14:59:00.013-06:00

So, Leeds can be pretty - a very nice downtown shopping area, people everywhere cooking makeshift barbeques in parks when it's sunny.

But. If you look closely (or click on the photos to enlarge them), you see that the yard around that large beautiful church is extremely overgrown, and if you go inside, you think you've wandered into a barn. The church in the smaller picture to the far right is now a nightclub called "Halo" (yes, like the video game). And that white building behind the nightclub is where I spend most of my time - it's the Parkinson building, containing the Leeds University Brotherton Library. A beautiful building, one might think. It contains large marble arches, and it is certainly architecturally pleasing.

-----------------------------
Yesterday, I actually caught myself emptying the crumbs from the bottom of my bag directly onto the floor of the Brotherton library. It was virtually involuntary.
After a moment of disgust, I realized that this irreverent action probably says more about the library than it does about me.

I think this picture, taken from the inside of the Ladies toilets at the Brotherton, about sums it up:

And, well, I think this poster is indicative of Leeds as a whole - good intentions, perhaps, with nice people and nice-looking buildings, but decrepit and kinda yucky up-close.

I kind of like it that way.

2009-06-20T12:54:00.000-06:00

Also, I'm just so dang glad that songs like this exist (this is the only link I found to the song, so I was going to say "IGNORE THE VIDEO," and then I noticed that the video has a library in it, and then I found the video rather amusing. So, don't ignore the video if you don't want to, but mostly focus on the song).

A part in a film.

2009-06-18T16:01:00.011-06:00

As I'm sure you've guessed, supersleuths, I had the immense privilege of living in Oxford for a few days. I lived with a medieval professor whose work I greatly admire and who encouraged me to just sit and watch crappy tv with her on the couch. Apart from discovering ridiculous British cop dramas and reveling in the greatness of the Bodleian, I also attended a guest dinner at Worcester College, as invited by said amazing professor.

June 3rd. I first attended a research seminar, with which I wasn't very impressed considering it's OXFORD. (At this seminar I also learned that those big-name scholars whose work had already influenced my own are actually sluts, sleeping with their students and getting them the best jobs.) After the seminar, I ran across town, changed outfits about three times before settling on what I had already been wearing, and showed up at Worcester College panting and insecure, wondering if collared shirt, knee-length skirt and flats were fancy enough.

They were not.

I began to notice tall high heels, regal black robes, and meticulously-styled updoes. "The Sunday guest dinners are little-black-dress wear, the Wednesday guest dinners are less of a big deal." Oh well, Elisabeth says I look fine, come along now here we go to this side room with a fireplace and rouge damask wallpaper. Elisabeth is scanning a small piece of white paper, makes some comment about other professorial guests, I lean over her shoulder and focus in on the top line: "HEAD TABLE," and underneath that: "Elisabeth Dutton and Guest." Gulp.

I am suddenly shaking hands with a long line of black-robed individuals, one of whom is the Worcester Provost, and most of whom are visiting professors from all over the Western world. I am thinking about my brown flats with the holes in the heels, and I do not register names as well as I should in such a situation.

We then line up and proceed into the main dining room, in which there are rows and rows of richly dressed students, already seated, watching us. We seat ourselves at the head table after a Latin prayer and blessing from the Provost. This is Harry Potter. I am suddenly, inexplicably, important. The dining hall is a long nave, and we are the altar. The table is also hugely wide, so that I have to yell to be heard on the other side, and I can't reach the butter for my bread. I must lay my knife and fork next to each other when I'm done eating, otherwise the servers will absolutely refuse, never ever take my emptied plate.

After an extended conversation with a Greek and Roman studies professor seated next to me (which went better than expected due to a "gosh, what a small world" contact in London) things really got weird. They warned me: "after this, things really get weird." Yup.

Dim lights. Chocolate, snuff, cramped room, candles, skulls, fixed seating (no Elisabeth), interrogation by All Souls professor about burgeoning thesis which is decidedly un-burgeoned, port, cognac, silver carafes, clouds of smoke, laughter, wondering is this a dream and why the frig did Elisabeth not tell me.

It was a grand evening.

Post number eight

2009-06-17T04:01:00.002-06:00

http://www.mif.co.uk/.

Also, here's where I was yesterday:

Satisfied.

2009-06-08T02:48:00.003-06:00

THERE. Phew.

I'm off to Warwick quite soon, but I do have things to say. Creative things. Things that will make this blog great.

The Bodleian Declaration

2009-06-03T03:36:00.003-06:00

If you are reading this, you are obligated to read the following declaration aloud:

"THE BODLEIAN DECLARATION
I hereby undertake not to remove from the Library, or to mark, deface, or injure in any way, any volume, document, or other object belonging to it or in its custody; not to bring into the Library or kindle therein any fire or flame, and not to smoke in the Library; and I promise to obey all rules of the Library."

Have you ever had to read an oath in order to obtain library access?
Here, you must. They enjoy...ceremony. The woman who issued me my library pass was also like this:
"It is not nawwwmal proceeeeejaw to admit tawwght postgraduates during tehm taym.

...however, juss fow you, pumkin, I'll make an exception."

I suppose this is a response to Hillary's statement that she must visit the Bodleian before she dies (or maybe she said Oxford, but anyway). Hillary, ...make sure you have your two letters of introduction, and don't stow firearms.

Also, the names of all the rooms here are endowed with an element of the sacred or scholarly. Today I'm going to a research seminar in the History of the Book Room in St. Cross Building. In Calgary, if a room has a name, it is something like "The Gerald P. Riley Monster Petroleum."

from the Bodleian

2009-06-01T11:28:00.003-06:00

So, I'm actually inside the Bodleian right now.

This is by far the most astounding room in which I've ever had the priviledge to read. It's just too beautiful - I can't read. Someone needs to take a giant black jiffy marker to the walls so that uncouth Canadian readers such as myself can do what we friggin' came to do.

My personal Boydleian is an aesthetic embarrasment.

There are people here who pace back and forth, tearing at their hair in silent intellectual agony, and then sit down and make frenzied scribbles at their notes.

2009-05-29T14:48:00.001-06:00

Arrggh, I quit.

Self-reflection

2009-05-29T14:10:00.009-06:00

This is kind of embarrassing. The black just wasn't happening - who was I kidding? Black just didn't jive with any of the images I wanted to post, so I finally caved. 'Scribe' found me.

I'm all nervous now that I know that people might actually read this (hello, Matthew). I need to think about this [blog] some more. Obviously.

In the meantime, meet Elaine Kowalsky. She experimented with parallel narratives, and the more I read about her, the more I think hers may be mine.

I need blog lessons.

2009-05-26T14:27:00.000-06:00

Bricklaying.

2009-05-24T17:02:00.001-06:00

I know, you all thought I would choose the "Scribe" template. Perhaps I can import a medieval illuminated margin and write everything in Middle English and advertise personal medieval paleography lessons and post pictures of myself in medieval attire.

But no. I've chosen BLACK.

On the occasion of my first day as a citizen of Leeds, I have decided to found The Boydleian. I wish not to advertise this too widely - or indeed, at all- until I feel secure about the worthiness of this foundation. Once the shelves have been furnished and the espresso bar set up, I shall release The Boydleian unto the world and expect accolades the size of watermelons.